


Frohike Gets Laid

by glinda4thegood



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Romance, Unrequited Love, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/273044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glinda4thegood/pseuds/glinda4thegood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What to give that special lady for a special day? Frohike heads to the mall to find a Valentine's Day offering for a tasty babe. Bit o'poetry credited to Theodore Roethke: <i>I Knew A Woman</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Frohike Gets Laid

It had been a mistake to come to the mall.

Frohike tried to keep his head from swivelling toward every surveillance camera he detected, and he had detected _lots_ of them on his walk from the parking garage, through courtyards swarming with oblivious consumers.

"I should have gotten her flowers again," he muttered, backed against a pseudo-marble wall next to an odoriferous trash can. But he'd seen the newspaper ad, describing flowers cynically as _the non-thinking man's tribute to love. Why give something that looks nice for a day, then starts to die? A gift from **Love Eternal** will express a deeper sentiment._

Frohike inched away from the wall, began to sidle along storefronts, catching sideways peeks at his reflection in the changing windows. "I might be short of stature, but my heart is bigger than most men's." A mental image of bright blue eyes and bow-shaped red lips that smiled too seldom floated in his mind's eye. "She's worth the risk."

Red streamers and lacy hearts were everywhere, draped on line overhead, clustered around store entrances. Soft background music, syrupy with strings and french horns, gave Frohike the feeling he was trapped in an oversized, demonic elevator. Here and there signs of other pending holidays intruded on the Valentine theme. Clovers, leprechauns and fluffy chicks crowded each other for space in a Hallmark Card window. On the mini-runway, near the down escalator, a group of costumed bunnies with baskets and karaoke microphones were finishing some kind of presentation.

"Greeting card holidays," Frohike said with distaste. There were only two real holidays on the calendar: _Christmas_ and Valentine's Day. And maybe the _Fourth of July,_ Frohike added righteously. Possibly _Thanksgiving Day._

He ran through the rest of the holidays quickly, just to be sure, slotting several into a folder marked _religious observance,_ several more into his _politically correct bullshit_ folder. _Halloween_ got its own folder, being less a holiday than it was an RPG with the end game of preparing players for adult onset diabetes. Everything else, especially all those Monday holidays, were pretty much made up to sell merchandise, or give government, postal and bank employees days off.

Frohike checked his coordinates. The ad had indicated _Love Eternal_ was located on the mall's second level, in a cluster of upscale shops selling leather and silk accessories, improbable shoes, and beachwear that made the _Victoria's Secret_ mannequins look overdressed. Frohike window-shopped in front of brightly colored bits of spandex, casing his intended destination.

An extravagantly swashed **_LE_** adorned the shop marker. Gold and silver spilled over mirrored cases like pirate's treasure, decadently enhanced with metallic lace and ribbon twined between the jewelry cases. Interior lighting looked to be dimmer than most of the shops he had passed; mood lighting intended to prevent customers from noticing when the cashier picked their pockets.

"Move it, Melvin." Frohike took a deep breath, huddled deeper into his vest, and made a beeline for the entrance to _Love Eternal._ He darted behind a display just inside the door, hoping to avoid lurking salespeople. A wall of CDs, with unfamiliar names and artists, provided temporary cover. He took a deep breath and pretended to read the jackets.

The air smelled of sandalwood, nutmeg and leather; almost, but not quite headshoppy. Although not an overpowering scent, it subtly occupied the store, advertising on a sensual level the oriental richness inside this shop of delights. Frohike rubbed his neck and shivered, deeply unsettled. He'd made a mistake. Nothing here looked, or smelled like something Scully might like.

"May I help you?"

"Arrggh." Startled, Frohike spun around. Sneaking salespeople. Blood rushed up his neck into his face as he got a better look at the sneaking salesperson. Nice. Petite, with strawberry blond hair, blue eyes, and small, high breasts. Very nice. "I'm looking for a gift."

"For someone special?" Her smile seemed genuine, and rather sweet.

"She is." Frohike cleared his throat. "She's a lovely redhead, too."

The saleswoman laughed. "Thank you. So she's beautiful, obviously intelligent, with impeccable taste."

Frohike's vest tightened against a swelling chest. He made a mental note the old sales tactics still had power over him. "I didn't want to give her flowers again."

"We specialize in alternatives." She took his arm, steered him toward the other side of the shop. "Tell me more about your lady."

"She's very independent," Frohike offered. It would sound pathetic, whipped, and over-dramatic to say _She's a goddess among women whose eyes shoot lightning in the pursuit of justice._

The saleswoman paused, picked up a small box. "A beautiful, intelligent, strong-willed woman who might be just a little old-fashioned?"

"Exactly!" Frohike examined the book inside the box. The green leather cover was stitched with gold cord, embossed with a lovely calligraphic rendering of the letter D.

"D -- for Dana!"

"D -- for diary. Look inside. Each day begins with a bit of romantic poetry."

Frohike fingered the texture of the heavy paper, turned to the first entry page.

 _What's freedom for? To know eternity.  
I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.  
But who would count eternity in days?  
These old bones live to learn her wanton ways . . ._

"I'll take it."

 

Frohike found himself back in the flow of pedestrian traffic, holding a package wrapped in foil, ribbon and lace. "You did good, Melvin," he whispered. He stroked the slick surface of the paper. "Should I write her a little note this year?"

His feet moved automatically toward the escalator, head lost in clouds of imagination.

"She'll say: _It's beautiful, Melvin. You know me so well._ " He sighed, remembering how Scully's eyes narrowed when she was really pissed off, and a man could swear there were blue sparks shooting away from those eyes. "I'll say: _It's a simple gift, from a simple man._ "

Earth reconnected with Frohike as someone bumped into him from behind. He realized he had stopped walking near the far side of the runway, causing a divergence in foot traffic. Any remaining wisps of imaginationland fled before the vision of his goddess, in person, on the far side of the runway.

"Shit!" A frantic evaluation of the situation did not immediately provide a solution to his dilemma. Scully was having a heated conversation with Mulder near a coffee vendor. What were his options? They hadn't seen him yet; the escalator was too big a risk. He could turn back and lose himself near the shops, maybe sneak out through an emergency exit.

Frohike slunk around the back of the runway, where a squatty, paper-twist covered structure blocked the view toward the coffee vendor. Costumed bunnies still milled about on the far side of the runway, accosting shoppers and handing out samples wrapped in pastel foil. Easter condoms? Normally, Frohike would have made a beeline over. Instead he tried to stuff the gift into his vest, while keeping one eye peering around the edge of the runway prop.

"Sometimes you're such an idiot, Mulder."

Scully's voice brought a flush of sweat to Frohike's temples. Coffees in hand, they were walking away from the vendor.

Where could he go? A moment of inspiration urged him to pull at the fabric stapled to the base of the wooden skeleton supporting the shaggy paper prop. It was empty inside, like a teepee, with a few electrical cords stretched across the floor. There might be room enough for a small person to crawl inside.

Bouncing, happy music from nearby speakers drowned out the mall music, followed by the sound of costumed bunny feet thudding in time to the beat.

"Shit." Frohike eeled his way through the gap, onto the runway platform. He tried to hold the bit of fabric closed behind him as he knelt, head just touching the top of the teepee.

"Choco-Egglets are light and sweet, brought to you by bunny feet ..."

One of those damn bunnies with the karaoke mikes was way too close for comfort. Frohike felt his knee give a twinge. If he got a charleyhorse now . . .

"Sugar-free, fat-free, choco-treats. Choco-Egglets can't be beat!"

Frohike rolled his eyes. Everyone knew fat-free chocolate had been developed to cause decrease of sexual desire in consumers, and probably impotence in men. The bunnies were nothing but government stooges with some nefarious agenda, masquerading as part of a frivolous advertising campaign.

"Get that away from me." Mulder's voice, pissy and abrupt, carried clearly above the music.

"It's only candy."

Scully's voice, condescending and incredulous, sounded so close Frohike thought she was probably within arm's length of his hiding place.

"Everyone knows fat-free chocolate was developed to cause decrease of sexual desire in consumers, and probably male impotence," Mulder said. "It's part of a population control experiment funded by . . ."

"Give me a break. Fat-free chocolate is another conspiracy?"

Great. Another Scully vs. Mulder skirmish. They never wrapped those things up quickly. Frohike squirmed, trying to rub his leg. His nose and throat tickled, the impulse to sneeze almost impossible to control. Odors of old paste, paper dust, rust and ozone . . . something jerked against Frohike's foot. Glancing down and back he saw he'd pushed his foot under one of the electrical cords.

And someone outside had just given the cord a yank.

"The average American eats over 10 pounds of chocolate in a year, Scully. The average American is obsessed with fat grams, bad cholesterol levels and cellulite on their butts," Mulder said, fading slightly.

Another yank. Frohike tried to extract his foot, tried to hold the fabric closed, tried not to sneeze. Unbalanced, his shoulder hit against the wooden frame, which creaked alarmingly.

"Along comes fat-free chocolate." Mulder was definitely moving away now, but not fast enough. "How much of the population do you think will question whether there's something worse than fat to worry about?"

"Hey!" One of the bunnies had lifted the flap of cloth. "What the hell you doing in there, man?"

"Prop inspector, Harvey. Get lost." Frohike jerked his foot free, tried to turn around in the small space. "Shit!"

Unbalanced, disheveled, with the sudden terror of a caged animal, Frohike decided to exit stage right. Paper-twist shredded and tore as the rest of the fabric skirting fell away. He rose from knees, to feet, prepared to jump from the runway on the side opposite Scully and Mulder's last known position. It was a plan that did not allow for evil electrical cords. With one foot free, the second foot had fouled on a cord, sending Frohike into a dive down the center of the runway.

Bunny heads turned. Singing stopped. The smack of Frohike's stomach hitting the runway seemed to resound through the mall, drawing curious eyes from two levels. As the last ounce of breath left his lungs, Frohike's vest popped open, allowing the gift to squirt out like a spit-propelled watermelon seed. It skidded over the edge of the runway.

It landed at Scully's feet.

"Frohike?" Scully's eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

"Did you decide it was time to leave the nest?" Mulder bent and picked up the ribbon-bedecked package. "Gift for someone special, Frohike? Or should I say, Chicken Little?"

"Give me that!" Frohike pulled himself upright, straightened his vest, removed paper-twist strands from between his glasses frames. He tried not to look at Scully as he jumped off the runway and grabbed the package from Mulder.

"Ignore Mulder." Scully reached to pull more paper-twist from his hair. "He's just jealous. That was quite an entrance."

"It's for you," Frohike blurted, shoving the gift into her hands. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"What, exactly, were you doing in there? Looking up momma rabbit's skirt? Were you hoping a nice warm bunny would sit on you until you hatched?" Mulder squinted at the mangled remains of what Frohike could now see had been meant to represent a nest. "If wearing a costume to get -- hatched -- makes you a furry, what does wearing a nest to get hatched make you? Is there some nerd word for what you were doing?"

"Quit talking, Mulder." Scully tucked the gift into her bag. She took Frohike's arm. "Thank you for the gift. Obviously this is not Mulder's area of expertise. He may know a lot about conspiracies -- he knows nothing at all about chickens and eggs. In order to be hatched, first you must be laid." She pulled Frohike away from the runway, away from the heap of paper scrap, away from Mulder. "Buy me a muffin to go with my coffee, Melvin?"


End file.
